


The Runaways

by noraleens



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King, Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Canon Rewrite, Fix-It, Multi, more tags tba, somewhat of a rewrite anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-11-24 10:21:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20906054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noraleens/pseuds/noraleens
Summary: El had known that there were others, ever since she’d stolen Kali’s case files from her warehouse in Chicago. She’d kept them hidden away, not daring to look any further into the research, afraid of what she might find. But now, the time has come to call upon the lost subjects of Hawkins Lab — before it’s too late.





	1. 1984 [Prologue]

Ever since moving into the dingy cabin in the middle of Hawkins’ most dense acre of woods, El Hopper’s awfully chipped fingernails have had a constant on-off relationship with her floorboards. At least once a month, she claws her way into the nearly unnoticeable crevice under Hop’s La-Z-Boy that he’s sure she doesn’t know about, and swings open the trapdoor, choking on the dust clouds that are thrown up out of it.

It only takes her seconds by this point to locate the large cardboard box with HAWKINS LAB scrawled on the side in faded black marker. She pushes her hair away from her eyes — still not used to the length — and squints at the box, slowly, telekinetically pulling it out of its space. Carefully. Even though she’s certain that nobody else checks the crawl space, she’s still always careful not to disturb the stacks of boxes; PLATES, DOLLIES, NEW YORK, VIETNAM. They all stay in their places amongst the dust and cobwebs, undisturbed.

In vain — Hop is out for the day, and even if he were to return, he’d warn her with a knock — she takes a quick look around, never too paranoid, before lifting the lid off the box.

She still doesn’t fully understand why she does it. Maybe it brings her comfort, reading the newspaper clippings, looking at the handfuls of baby photos. But she isn’t actively trying anything. She doesn’t have a big board on her wall, pins and strings connecting the pictures. Nevertheless, once in awhile, she’ll match up this picture and that story in her mind, and everything makes a bit more sense. Like connecting a puzzle piece.

But this isn’t a puzzle she wants to solve.

So if this or that missing kid ever looks just a bit too familiar, she’ll close the folder and finish her reading session until next time. And she’s reminded why, as she lands on a particular photo while she’s flipping through the pages. She lets the folder fall all the way open in her lap.

It’s Kali, the eighth, staring back at her in the black-and-white. **_Vanished!_** the headline shouts. **_Indian girl missing in London!_** She traces the edge of the photo, the years-old smudged ink, the faded shadow of sellotape in the photocopy. She wants to cry.

Kali’s voice echoes in her head.

_ We have a mission, _ she insists, and El watches her hands, vision obscured by her breath in the cold air. Her hands, no longer occupied by imaginary butterflies, instead wringing anxiously, serve the purpose of a distraction, as El can feel her sister’s eyes boring into her, scarily intense. _ And it is not just us. _

El’s head snaps up at that, and they finally lock eyes. _ We’ve spent our time finding them, _ Kali continues. _ The bad men. But we’ve also been looking for others. Like me. _ She places her hand on El’s tensed-up knee. _ Like you. _

_ Others? _El questions, confused, cloud in front of her dissipating as her breath catches in her throat. She gets a clear view of the solemn nod she receives in response.

She throws the folder shut, shaking the memory out of her head.

Her eyes wander to the latest additions to the box. More folders, gray and blue and green; a large three-ring binder, red. She feels a pang of guilt. She doesn’t recall exactly what she’d been thinking when she’d snatched up as many of the files as she could and stuffed them into her duffel bag. But here they were, out of Kali’s hands, banished to the Hoppers’ crawl space. Opened only once or twice, then quickly closed again.

Maybe a part of her had hoped that she could do something with them. Something like Kali had been trying to do. Maybe — and the thought makes her breath catch again — she’d had an inkling of a worry that she may _ need _ to do something with them.

She reminds herself that she never will.

_ It’s over. _ She closed the gate.

The folders are tossed back into the box, to be forgotten until the next time El lets the faces and the headlines back into her head. The box is closed, the tape pressed back down even though the adhesive no longer sticks, and it’s set back into its place. Hop will be home soon, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm VERY excited to finally be posting this fic !! It's essentially a sort of rewrite of ST3, including some IT characters and ... yeah . Also I made it gayer obviously .  
[Obligatory tumblr plug](https://bylerrights.tumblr.com) ! Feel free to message me on there I'm lonely thanks  
♡ huge thanks to my betas jay & snig !! ♡


	2. 1985

Mike’s grass-stained white sneakers squeak loudly against the linoleum of Starcourt Mall’s food court, but he’s in too much of a hurry to care about the scuff marks he’s inevitably leaving behind.

He’s ducking in between couples and past groups of teenagers slurping on milkshakes as he runs against the crowd, tripping over his feet every few steps like the athlete he so isn’t. He’s breathing heavily to the rhythm of his toes thumping on the tile, and he feels bad for the kids he’s shoving around, especially as he’s spitting a lovely amalgam of _ shit-shit-shit-fuck _under his breath.

He skids to a stop. 

Just narrowly avoiding a collision with his friend’s back. Will turns around, a blend of surprise and amusement on his face — “You’re late.”

“Brought snacks, though,” Mike offers, slinging his backpack over his shoulder as he shoots an acknowledging look to his other three friends. Will’s smile gives him a rush of accomplishment. He only tears his eyes away to zip open the bag.

He’s fishing into the front pocket, searching for a large packet of Reese’s Pieces (Will’s favorite), when a flash of platinum blonde catches his eye, poking out from behind Max. It’s still shocking, after two years, seeing her in the wig — shorter as she’s grown, lumpy and awkward on top of her actual hair if you looked too close — but he supposes it’s better than keeping her cooped up in the cabin all day. Not that he’s in love with the idea. He side-steps his way in between her and Max to shield her from any prying eyes.

“What movie?” she asks him, staring at him curiously, and he feels an inexplicable pull to duck away from the uncomfortable eye contact. His response is muted and awkward: _ Day of the Dead. _

“It’s scary,” Max adds after him, far more smoothly, linking her arm up with El’s and instantly making her giggle. “You gonna be _ scared? _” she teases.

“I can handle it.”

Mike doesn’t doubt that she can — what with all that she’s been through, how traumatizing could a few fake zombies be? — but his brow still furrows with worry. Will has been through nearly as much as her, but he still hates horror movies. Mike’s hand wanders to his shirt, carefully selected for its soft fabric blend, prepared in advance for a terrified Will to bury his face in it.

Dustin suddenly claps, and the others jump. 

“Let’s go, then!” he shouts, garnering stares from the shoppers passing by them. “Thanks to Mike here —” Mike flips him off — “we’ll probably miss the previews, but we can still make it! _ Ándale! _”

*****

“_Eso es una locura! _”

“_No estoy bromeando. Lo digo en serio! _”

Flashing lights in pinks and purples dance outside the window, and a set of slender fingers dances on the shelves. They carefully select a box, delicate and bright white, and wrap around it.

“Excuse me?”

No response. She glances back at the box, expressionless.

“_Disculpe? _” she tries.

That catches their attention. The clerk and his friend quiet and turn to her — seemingly confused by the pale, freckled girl speaking at them in such a way — and she takes this as a sign to approach. She sets her box down on the counter and plasters on a smile.

“_Me gustaría comprar … _ ” she shuts her eyes for a second. Her Spanish is rusty. “ _ Esto, _” she settles, drumming the box on the surface.

The clerk’s judgemental gaze lingers for a moment, but eventually, he begins to ring her up. “Twelve-fifty,” he announces, not looking up from the register.

She continues to drum the counter with the box in a steady rhythm, keeping it audible even above the voices of partygoers shouting from the sidewalks outside. “_ Actually, _ ” she breathes along the _ thump-thump-thump _ of the thin plastic, “I _ really _ need these. For sleeping.”

“Rules … are … rules,” he responds, still not looking up, and her hands tremble in the slightest with frustration. Still, she remains calm. Her fingers dance again, tactfully reaching out and landing on his forearm with the gentlest touch. 

He looks up at her questioningly. _ Bingo. _

The deep brown eyes staring down at her glaze over almost instantly, and he moves in a robotic sort of way as he quickly slides the register shut.

“_Vale. _” He gestures to the box. “Have it.”

The grin she gives him is real as she stuffs the box of pills into the pocket of her shorts. “Thank you!”

She begins to leave, but quickly changes her mind — “Actually,” she voices her idea, pointing at the shelf above his head, “give me one of those.”

It’s chock-full of alcohol, from large bottles of pink wine to vodka and liquors that the small corner bodega was almost certainly not licensed to sell. He stiffly nods — no consideration for the teenager in front of him — before turning on his heels and reaching upwards.

The lights blink off and on again. Her heart skips a beat.

The feeling is quiet, but it creeps up her neck and down into her stomach. She throws her arms out at the counter to stable herself. She’s felt this before: for the second time in her life, the world shifts; but it’s more brooding, more urgent, and she’s shaking hard.

Her subject stares at her, waiting for direction, but it’s suddenly extremely unsettling to look into his empty eyes. The lights outside are strobe-flashing and glowing impossibly bright at the same time, and she wonders if she’s the only one witnessing it.

Then, she’s plunged into darkness.

*****

The film reel flickers back to life. Will opens his eyes.

He remembers shutting them in terror — why do zombies, of all things, put him off so much? — before the uproar; shouts and profanities and bits of popcorn hitting him in the head.

“Power outage?” he questions, mostly to himself. It catches Mike’s attention anyway.

“Yeah, I guess,” he responds, leaning into Will. “Only for a second. You okay?”

Will nods. He isn’t sure, but Mike worries too much — naturally, he seems not to believe him, but lays off of him without prying.

It had been overwhelming. Over the past years, Will has grown less and less fond of terror; by now he would be happy to never experience the chills down his spine or pressure in his chest. He’d gone lightheaded, gripping the armrests to the point his knuckles were still fading from white.

But he sinks back in his seat nonetheless, grateful at least for the short break, and leans just slightly into Mike. He’s safe again.


	3. Do You Copy?

Even the inner city has its share of decent motels: coffee maker, overpriced mini-fridge, tiny little bars of soap that don’t properly lather. The bed is comfortably big, far too much room for the boy lying in it — lengthwise, his feet are nearly falling off of the mattress. Thankfully, shoulder-to-shoulder, he’s just about average for his age.

Which isn’t very old.

He lifts his head up off his pillow: he doesn’t need to check any clock to know that a housekeeper will be pestering him just about —

_ — Knock-knock-knock. _Now.

“No towels,” he calls before it can be asked. He hadn’t showered the night before; not only are motel showers never advisable, but neither is daily hair-washing. He’d never admit how meticulous he was about his appearance. It’s simply a health concern, if anyone asks.

Which nobody does.

He rolls over and sits up. The housekeeper is across the hall now, giving the couple there his towels. He stares at himself in the mirror directly in front of him — an interesting design choice — and blinks the sleep out of his eyes.

His first thought is that he needs to eat more. His second is that he needs to sew up the hole in the side of his shirt.

His third is that someone below him is smoking, unaware of the motel staff heading towards his door.

Stay classy, Louisville.

*****

Will’s alarm doesn’t go off that morning. He’d forgotten about the power outage. Instead, he wakes up naturally, hair matted to his forehead with sweat, sun already blindingly bright through the shades. He’s fully prepared to spend half an hour rolling lazily out of bed before trekking to the kitchen for breakfast — he’s on vacation, after all — until a pair of familiar voices breaks the tranquil silence:

_ — Will? Come in, Will — _

_ — Don’t call him that — _

_ — God, what-_ever _ — _

_ — Just gimme the — gimme it. Cleric, do you copy? This is Paladin, Cleric, do you copy — _

“Yeah,” Will groans into his radio, hoisting himself up onto knobbly elbows, “I copy.”

_ “Cleric!” _ Mike greets, and Will can almost hear him grinning through the walkie; it makes him smile, too, despite his heavy eyes and foggy head. _ “You’re late,” _ he says as Will falls back down onto his pillow. _ “Did you forget we were meeting? After you gave me so much shit for the movies yesterday —” _

“Crap,” Will spits under his breath, painstakingly lifting himself up again, “Sorry, my alarm didn’t go off — I’m on my way.” He quickly adds, “I barely even complained,” before slamming the antenna down and leaping out of bed.

Most of his clothes these days are too big — hand-me-downs from Jonathan, who was never quite as scrawny as him — but he manages to settle on a navy-blue tee that only hangs off of his shoulders a little bit.

Even in his rush, he pauses before selecting a pair of shorts. His dark-blue ones look far too much like one of the two pairs Mike owns, the ones that go to his middle-thigh, and he has to stop himself from slamming the drawer shut the moment he’s reminded of them. He settles on a pair with a lighter wash, despite being short for his liking (he may be thinner than Jonathan, but his growth spurt had come much earlier and more intense than anyone had anticipated), before throwing everything on and heading out the door.

Sure enough, had he woken up just a bit earlier, he would have been able to stop for breakfast — the smell of pancakes and sweet syrup makes his mouth water the second he opens the door. But he passes by his mother as she hums with her newspaper at the table, giving her a quiet “Sorry, I’m late, I’ll eat at Dustin’s” (he won’t) as he makes a beeline for the driveway.

*****

Wheat flour. Sugar. Chocolate chips. 

Whole eggs, cocoa butter, dextrose, soy lecithin, canola oil, leavening, corn starch. 

“This one, please.”

It’s probably a strange sight to see in the early hours of the morning: a lone boy, with the mannerisms of an adult but a face appearing no older than fourteen, peering at a pastry display case for minutes on end with utmost intensity.

Confirming his concerns, the cashier eyes him awkwardly as she hands him his muffin and takes his cash. He gives her a nod and a quiet “thank-you” before promptly leaving the café — not only does he have a busy day ahead, but he’s eager to leave as quickly as possible.

He knows that he’s being watched as he walks out of the door — he knows a lot of things. It’s deafening. It’s the reason why he avoids large crowds like the plague. 

A man passes by him, bumping his side with a large briefcase as he power-walks by, interrupting his thoughts with a new one: he has no need to know the man’s name, but he does. He has no need to know the contents of his briefcase (suggesting a career in law), but he does.

He certainly never _wants _ to know the events occurring in the small town of Hawkins, Indiana.

Unfortunately, he isn’t so lucky.

*****

“So, what are we doing out here?” Will calls.

His friends all whip their heads around — Dustin, Lucas, Max, and Mike, stuck to El’s side — to Will, standing nearer to the bottom of the hill they’re hiking up, bike long abandoned next to the Hendersons’ porch. Mike immediately catches his eye: already panting a tenth of the way up the hill, baby-blue shirt stained with sweat, hair soaked to the point it’s begun curling at the ends despite Mike’s best efforts to keep it straight. He quickly looks away as soon as his eyes fall upon Mike’s hand, tightly clutched in El’s.

“Well, since you’re fashionably late, you missed our _ debriefing_,” Lucas says, stressing the last word in a mocking sort of way.

Dustin somehow doesn’t catch the tone. Instead, he says “William Byers,” in the melodramatic storytelling voice that each of them had picked up from years of D&D. He drops the duffel bag he’s holding with a loud _ thump _ , hands now free to gesture for emphasis, and drops into a squat to zip it open. “I would like you to meet …” Will steps towards him to get a better look. “ _ Cerebro_,” he finishes with pride.

Will peers into the bag. “It’s … a bunch of electrical parts.”

“This is not just any mere mess of electrical parts, Byers!” Dustin protests, so loudly that Will is sure his voice is carrying all the way to his house down the hill. “Today, we are going to assemble a one-of-a-kind … battery powered … radio tower.”

He’s silent then, as though waiting for Will to exclaim in excitement, but he’s just as quiet as everyone else standing around him. He stares down at the contents of the bag, squinting as bits of metal wrapped in colorful wires reflect the sunlight into his eyes. He looks back up at Dustin. “So it’s … a ham radio?”

“The_ Cadillac _ of ham radios,” Dustin clarifies.

As Will nods in understanding, Dustin begins to zip up the bag. Lucas places a hand on his shoulder to steady him as he stands back up on the slanted ground of the hill. El whispers something in Mike’s ear and he chuckles. Will tries hard to ignore them.

“Now,” Dustin says, patting the side of the bag, “we’ve gotta install this right at the top of this very hill — the highest point in Hawkins.” He pauses again, looking around as if holding for applause. It doesn’t come. “But we haven’t got all day,” he eventually continues. “So, onwards and upwards!”

*****

Setting up _ Cerebro _ is some of the most strenuous physical activity Mike had done in years.

By the time they’d reached the top of the hill, the sun had started to go down, offering relief from the blistering heat they’d been walking in all day — to be fair, though, Dustin had graciously allowed them to break twice for food and drink, and to sit on the grass and talk amongst themselves (while he pored over manuals pulled from his duffel bag).

Mike works mostly with El, wrapping coils around poles and duct-taping wires to metal pipes without much conversation. They all lift the tower up together, digging it into the soil, and stand back to admire their handiwork.

It’s beautiful, in a strange, home-made sort of way. The poles are wonky, the tape already peeling in the heat; metal bits are sticking out and it’s teetering awkwardly above them, but through the eyes of a group of kids exhausted and glowing from a day’s worth of work, it’s a sight to behold.

“I wanna die,” Max says under her breath as they stare up at the thing, squinting in the glare of the low-hanging sun.

“It looks pretty good,” Will remarks. He looks away to make eye contact with Mike from across the circle of people, and smiles a little, aware of how grating he finds Max’s voice. Mike shakes his head at him.

“Well, I, for one, am proud of us,” Dustin says, folding onto the grass. The others follow. “I swear to you, all this work was worth it. This baby can transmit a crystal-clear connection further than anything you’ve ever seen.”

“Like … to China?” Will offers.

“Think bigger.”

“Australia?” Lucas asks.

“Come on, who do you think I am?” Dustin grins at Lucas as the others exchange curious glances. “I’m talking North Pole to South.” He watches, contented, as his friends mumble amongst themselves.

Dustin picks up the receiver — “This is Dustin Henderson from Hawkins, Indiana” — and Will’s eyes wander over to Mike again. 

He’s sitting cross-legged in the grass — wearing just the shorts Will had worried about — and he and El are whispering back and forth. He watches Mike’s hands move as he talks, borderline hypnotizing, articulating his thoughts in the way they do when he’s describing a comic he loves, or a particularly interesting D&D campaign. He watches the way that the wind is tousling his hair, tiny curls now fully formed on his forehead.

Night has fully fallen now, air still humid but growing lighter by the minute, warm reds and dull purples of the sunset replaced by tones of blue. It’s Mike’s color, cool as the night air, bringing out the paleness of his skin.

He catches Will’s eye. In the darkness, he gives him a gentle smile.

“Hello?” Dustin continues to try, although Will can hardly hear him anymore. He mumbles to Lucas, confused, “It’s just static.”

Mike keeps looking at him, but something in his gaze shifts: he still seems as though he’s trying to smile, but his expression falls to something unreadable as El holds onto his arm. Will thinks he looks sad — but that can’t be right — _ projection _ is what it is, because _ he’s _ sad, because as much as he refuses to acknowledge it, the way El’s hand fits so perfectly in Mike’s makes him want to cry.

“Does anyone copy?”

El whispers into Mike’s ear again. She kisses him on the cheek.

“This is Dust —”

All Will sees is a flash, but whether it’s next to him or behind his eyelids, he doesn’t know; all he hears is Lucas shrieking _ Shit! _and the sound of Dustin falling back onto the grass, and Mike scrambling to his feet, leaving a dazed El behind.

“I’m good, I’m fine,” Dustin breathes as he lifts himself up, swatting Lucas’ hand off his shoulder. “Fuck. I’m fine.”

Will snaps himself out of his shocked state to join the others, El close behind. Lucas is helping Dustin up and rubbing his back, while Max kneels inches away, where the receiver lies in the grass.

“It shocked me,” Dustin says, still trying to catch his breath.

Will looks over at the receiver. It’s in Max’s hand now, and she’s inspecting it curiously: not only is the panel on the back now peeling off, but the speaker is charred almost completely; it’s unlike anything Will can recall ever seeing before. Max’s face finally breaks into a smirk. “I guess the whole ‘do-it-yourself’ thing kinda backfired.”

“I-I don’t know what went wrong,” Dustin says, mostly to himself, as he crawls over to push Max away and fumble with the electrical parts. “Maybe if we just …”

He zips open his duffel bag again, determined as ever, and Will sinks back down onto his calves in relief. He looks over to Mike again — he’s already looking back, but with the same unnerving expression as before, even with El’s hand in his again. Will looks away from him — a rare occurrence.

Dustin continues to tinker with the radio until the moon is hanging high in the sky and the cold air has begun to force Will to hug his goose-bumped arms. But he doesn’t considering leaving; at least, not until Mike pipes up: “Hey, dude? It’s getting kinda late.”

“Yeah,” Max agrees, leaping to her feet.

“Sorry —”

“I’m sure you can get it to work,” Max interrupts Mike (as per usual), leading Lucas to stand up with her. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike offers, although Will can tell it’s his forcedly polite voice, implying he won’t be back tomorrow, if he can help it. His hand isn’t in El’s anymore; she nudges it, but it doesn’t oblige. Max crosses over to take his spot. She links her arm with El’s and guides her down the hill.

“See you tomorrow!” El calls. Mike turns to Will.

Will’s hands tremble from where he stands now, and he gives a small, nervous smile. He can’t put a finger on what’s making him feel so shy around his best friend. “Maybe … maybe tomorrow we can play D&D?” he offers. “After we come back here,” he adds quickly, remembering that Dustin is within earshot (shaking his head in annoyance).

“Maybe,” Mike replies.

And they stand there for a moment. The night is so dark and Mike is wearing his signature Will-eyes, the ones that make Will’s heart speed up and his cheeks warm, even in the cold night. He thinks that they could be standing face-to-face if Mike stepped forward just a little, and if Will got just the slightest bit up on his tiptoes; at this point, their height difference was minimal — not to say that Mike didn’t tower over everyone else.

Lucas clears his throat.

“So, uh — I’m gonna go, too,” he announces, rising quickly. “Let me know if it works out,” he adds politely before beginning to make his way down the hill.

Mike nods in agreement and starts to leave as well, but not before waving a bit to Dustin — whose eyes remain glued to the radio.

Not quite ready to leave yet — waiting for Mike to be a good way down the hill — Will approaches him, crouching down to look at the receiver. “Have you figured out the problem?”

“Nope.” Dustin drops it on the ground. “Maybe I should just give up.”

“No!” Will urges, shocking them both — he quickly retreats back into his regular practice of making himself small, but continues: “I’m sure it’ll work. Just … keep trying.”

Dustin smiles. “Thanks, Will.”

Will accepts it with a nod. Then, he starts to leave; his mom will be worried sick that he’s been out so late. He slowly makes his way down the hill, careful not to trip over his feet as he skids down the steep slope.

Dustin stands to watch him go. Just as he’d watched El, Max, Mike, and eventually Lucas; moreso in Will’s case, still paranoid about his safety, as they all are. 

It’s bittersweet. He appreciates that they’d spent the whole day with him (although most of this particular day was spent listening to them complain), but the moment they leave, he almost feels as though they’d never showed up at all.

He may not be much, in his humble opinion, but he prides himself on being perceptive. He can sense every unspoken feeling and bottled-up emotion, and it’s saved their Party from falling apart a multitude of times. But even the most foolproof formulas have the potential to break down, and Dustin fears that that may be the case.

The rift wasn’t obvious at first. Maybe a few awkward moments, an unspoken glance here and there. A day or two that had just felt _ off _. But now the air has changed significantly. Between Mike and Will, and especially between Mike and El. Nothing is right. 

The only possibility worse than this situation (whatever it is) reaching a breaking point, in Dustin’s mind, would be it having creeped up right under his nose.

Will finally steps out of his line of sight —

— and suddenly, the radio buzzes to life.

He immediately drops back down to his knees. “Hello?” He shakes his head — luckily Mike isn’t still there to smack him for his improper language — and corrects: “Does anybody copy? _ Do you copy? _”

No response. But no blank static, either: the radio is working. As is _ Cerebro_.

His breath hitches as he holds the radio to his ear, and he raises his head to look in the direction of his house, half-expecting there to be someone standing above to celebrate with him.

But Will is already far gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr plug](https://bylerrights.tumblr.com) . ♡


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